


Touched (In The Head)

by xysabridde



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Mild slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xysabridde/pseuds/xysabridde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few times Sam has touched, or otherwise interacted with, Gene. Mild slash, and a little nudity/violence for which the rating has been raised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touched (In The Head)

The first time Sam touches Gene’s arm.

It's late, very late, and Gene dragged Sam in at six this morning with the brusque words “we need to talk about Billy Kemble” and that they did, properly, man to man. It’s horrible. Sam hates it all, feels his skin crawling every so often and Gene’s far from his usual self too, barely makes one homophobic sideswipe at his DI all day; Sam still doesn't agree with the punishment his Guv doled out to Ray, but he does understand, and he does understand that this will be remembered. Ray is tarnished, forever, he’ll be living under this shadow for the rest of his career, because a man like Ray won't forget, and a force like the GMP won't forget.

The day came and went, Ray barely spoke at all, everyone went home without so much as looking at him. The Guv's punished him, that's the end of it for now... except Gene's shaken to his foundations, on edge and tetchy, and if Sam didn't know him better, he might say Gene was traumatised by the experience- but he likes his features the way they are, so he keeps those thoughts firmly to himself and just watches. Watches Gene swaggering through CID, only to deflate the second he steps into his office.

"You alright?"

"Bugger off." Gene reaches for a bottle of whisky, ignoring the tumblers beside it and chucking it straight down his throat instead. Sam winces.

"Steady on. You need to eat something before you start doin' that."

Gene takes one more defiant gulp.

"Fine." Sam holds his hands up, palms out, and shrugs.

Glaring, Gene joins him on the sofa, whisky bottle still clutched in both hands. "Did you speak to Andrea Kemble?"

"I felt she needed to know."

"Course she soddin' did. 'E was 'er little brother, even if 'e was a druggie prick." Gene takes another swig. "Well?"

"Well, she wasn't 'appy."

"Didn't expect 'er to be skippin' round the daisy fields, meself."

"She doesn't blame you, Guv. She blames Ray."

"Then she's wrong." Another gulp. Sam reaches over and firmly takes the bottle off him. "Give that back, Tyler."

"You've 'ad enough."

"Who're you, my missus?" But he makes no move to take the bottle back, and Sam's glad.  
"If we 'adn't gone out for that meal, an' left Ray in charge, Billy Kemble would still be alive."

"If Ray 'adn't shoved cocaine into ‘im, Billy Kemble would still be alive."

Gene sighs. "What a bloody mess, Tyler. What a mess."

"I know."

And, maybe because he hates seeing Gene like this, maybe because he actually rather- likes- the man, or maybe because he's holding Gene's whisky and knows he won't risk his Glenmorangie taking a swing at him, he rests his hand on Gene's arm, and Gene lowers his eyes and watches it until Sam's cheeks heat up and he pulls it away.

"Ta," Gene says softly, and hauls himself up. "C'mon, Tyler. 'Nother day tomorrow. Better get you 'ome, it's past your bedtime."

-0-0-

The first time Sam touches Gene's face.

It’s Christmas Eve, and they’re both off duty for once, and because it’s Christmas, Gene wants curry (“Nelson’s cookin’ ‘is own turkey, an’ I’d like to avoid food poisonin’ this year; ‘sides, I’ll be force-fed it at me mam’s tomorrow”). So they go all the way out to Rusholme again, to a restaurant that’s not guaranteed to give them Delhi-belly this time, and settle down for the evening in a booth together, coats slung over their chairs, feet tangled beneath the too-small table, and no radios nearby to disturb the cordial atmosphere as they talk. And talk. It’s the most Sam’s ever heard Gene talk, about anything and everything, and he can only assume it’s the festive spirit because Gene is never this relaxed… or he might say it was the company, if he were feeling daring, but that’s a whole new can of worms to open, and he’s too happy having a proper night out with Gene to do that tonight.

They’re laughing together by the time their curries arrive, huge plates of steaming meat and sauce with a big bowl of rice and an enormous garlic naan between them; Sam’s seriously doubtful that they’ll even dent the portions, but the second Gene tucks in food’s vanishing at an astonishing rate and despite his better judgement, he finds himself trying to match his Guv’s speed, grinning at him over the table as he coats his naan in rice and chicken and shoves it in and Gene forks up his lamb at a speed that would give a lesser man a heart attack, smirking at Sam past the mountain of food.

But there comes a point when the bottomless pits are filled, and Sam’s belly is straining against his trousers as he admits defeat and sits back, stretching, so full he can’t even look at the scrapes of sauce left on his plate, the half-full bowl of rice between him and Gene, who is still shovelling food in, albeit less enthusiastically.

“You could stop now, y’know. We didn’t actually make a bet in the first place.”

“’M still hungry,” Gene replies thickly through a mouthful of naan and meat. He picks the spoon up for the rice and ladles more onto his plate, on top of the curry. “You c’n g’ve up, if y’like.”

“I’m just being sensible. You’ll make yerself sick, the way you’re goin’.”

“’S good food.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t leave some. Besides, when did you care about being polite?”

“P’lite? ‘Ve paid f’r this,” Gene gets out through another mouthful. His cheeks are bulging, eyes lit up; he reminds Sam of a hamster. “Need t’eat it.”

“You are goin’ to be so sick, or ‘ave the worst indigestion known to man. Or probably both, actually.” Sam sits back and watches the spectacle, watches Gene’s movements slow and his chewing become more laboured, the fork being dropped and then picked up again by a reluctant hand. A ladleful more rice, that Gene hesitates before digging into.

“Gene, come on now. You’ve ‘ad enough.”

“’M n’t a child,” Gene hisses through his food. But two forkfuls later, he puts his fork down and leaves it there, leaning back and exhaling hard through his nose, two buttons of his shirt coming undone.

“Come on, then. We can pay an’ ‘ead ‘ome, I’ll even treat you to a nightcap.”

Gene stands up, sways a little, and sits quite abruptly back down. “Mmph. Gimme a minute.”

It’s as he sits back down, and gets the light on his face, that Sam realises he’s got curry sauce smeared over the side of his mouth. “You’ve got food on yer- no, other cheek- up a bit… oh for Christ’s sake, come ‘ere.”

He puts a hand on Gene’s cheek- his warm, slightly prickly, rather soft cheek- and turns his face and starts wiping the sauce off with his napkin, dabbing at the bits he manages to smear up to his nose, trying to concentrate on cleaning rather than caressing and it’s only when Gene clears his throat and pushes Sam’s hand away that Sam realises he was frozen, fingers against Gene’s face.

“C’mon, Tyler. You promised a nightcap,” Gene says, but his voice is quiet, quiet enough that Sam can draw back and gather his thoughts without drawing attention to them.

“Fine. D’you want me to drive back? You look a bit sleepy.”

“I’m stuffed, Tyler, is what I am. Fine, but don’t drive like a great mincin’ ponce this time.”

“… I’ll do my best.”

-0-0-

The first time Sam touches Gene’s hand.

The bust they’re on has gone a little bit wrong. Sam thought precautionary movement towards the exit was in order, and having backup on standby outside, but then Ray managed to drop his radio and give away exactly where they were hiding and they were all already legging it by the time Gene had grabbed it off the floor and shouted “EVERYONE INCLUDIN’ THE SODDIN’ BACKUP, RUN!”

Everyone else managed to head for the main exit and the car park outside, but Sam and Gene got cut off in the melee and they’re out on the balcony on the second floor, having gone for the stairs in a fit of pure panic. And of course, because Gene was making so much bloody noise on the radio, someone heard them, and they’d just rounded the corner when they’d heard boots stomping after them and someone screaming that they were up here, the filth were up here, they’re heading out to the balcony boys, let’s get them like the snivelling worms they are-

And they’re trapped, there’s a man with a baseball bat in each doorway, and Sam casts round wildly for anything that might help them out of this situation and oh thank Christ and all the sodding angels, there’s a ladder, they can run for that and it goes down into another level, so they can get out and into the car park before these louts can follow.

He slaps Gene’s arm and bolts, haring it to the ladder and down, screaming at Gene to follow, but Gene’s got to wait for him to get down before he levers himself and he’s shouting at Sam to _hurry the soddin’ hell up or they’ll get me you bastard_ , and just as Gene swings himself round and plants his loafers firmly on the rungs, a baseball bat bounces off the concrete beside his head.

Gene throws himself backwards, lands with a thud beside Sam, scrambles up and runs alongside him but he’s favouring his right leg, and Sam grabs his hand and pulls him along beside him as the first set of boots behind them echo off the walls.

And the van’s drawing up beside them, Chris flings the doors open, and they bolt in just as the van revs and screams off towards the road, leaving their targets in a cloud of dust behind them.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Sam gasps, chest heaving for air. “That was close.” And it’s only now, with the thrill of the adrenaline wearing off, that he realises he’s still holding onto Gene’s hand, and quickly lets go before Ray or Chris notice, choosing to fuss over Gene’s ankle instead. With a slight tingling in his fingers, that he really can’t deny, even to himself.

-0-0-

The first time Sam touches Gene’s chest.

They have a suspected porn dealer in Lost and Found, along with much of his merchandise (that which escaped Ray’s attention and didn’t end up in his desk). And Gene’s already a bear with a sore head because Litton was all over it like a rash, claiming it was his case because it turned out the bloke had a gun although Gene’s department and chiefly Sam and Gene themselves (with a lot of help from Annie) have done all the work on it, and the bloody porn dealer’s claiming it was “just a mate’s” and grinning like a weasel all through Gene’s interrogation. Even Sam just gets a sickly smirk and some jibe about being Gene’s pet when he tries to wade in and turn things round and eventually they’re all wasting their time, suffocating in the gloomy little room, surrounded by junk and half-naked girls. Gene insisted he didn’t want Annie in here with the bastard, more for her own protection than for anything else, but of course she didn’t appreciate that, and nor did Sam; they only backed down when the bloke started making comments about how good Annie would look on film, and Annie punched him in the kidneys and stormed off to “do something useful”.

“I’m sure you’re gettin’ bored, Wilkins. We are too.” Sam’s given up on good cop, bad cop. Even absolutely gorgeous cop didn’t work, so they tried bad cop and utter bastard cop, but that only drew more smirks and more “no comment”s until Sam felt like ripping his own hair out. “This stuff’s yours, some of it’s got your signature on it, all of it’s got your fingerprints on it, yer in some of it. Just tell us what we need to know.”

“No comment.”

“How old’s the girl in this one? Did she consent?” Sam holds a photo up; Gene’s face hardens. “Look at ‘er, Wilkins. D’you know ‘er name?”

“No comment.”

“The man, the man enjoyin’ ‘imself with ‘er, is that you?”

“No comment.”

“Oh, Jesus! Can we get this over with?” Gene yanks Wilkins up by his collar and punches him in the face, once, twice, three times, sending a tooth flying; Sam’s up and out of his chair, shouting at Gene to stop, but Gene throws him backwards and Wilkins lands in a crumpled heap on the floor, gurgling laughter through the blood in his mouth.

“Stupid copper,” he spits out. Gene kicks him in the side.

“She was a kid, wasn’t she? ‘Ow old? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

Wilkins chuckles. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You bastard. You utter bloody _scumbag_!” Gene grabs him by the neck, hauling him up as Wilkins’ giggles turn to shrieks of pain; Sam grabs Gene around the chest and hauls him backwards, forces him to drop Wilkins, shouts for Annie to get in here and bring the first aid kit as he drags Gene out of the room and throws him against the corridor wall, both of them breathing hard, Gene’s fists smeared with blood.

“You can’t go around killin’ suspects, even if they are rapists!”

“That bastard might’ve destroyed ‘er, Tyler! A little girl, a vulnerable little girl!” Gene’s shouting loudly enough that Sam’s ears are ringing, but he holds on, his hands pressed against Gene’s chest, pinning him in place. “An’ now ‘e’s ‘oldin’ the Gene Genie in contempt with the evidence in front of ‘im! The bastard deserves to ‘ave ‘is brains kicked out!”

“No, ‘e deserves prison, you stupid idiot!”

And they both fall silent, Sam’s hands still on Gene’s chest, as Wilkins is led out by Phyllis and Annie, towards the cells, limping and bloodied, face bruised into meat. He spits a tooth out at Gene as he goes past.

“He’s scum, but ‘e’s not worth you lowerin’ yerself to ‘is standard,” Sam says, quietly enough that nobody else can hear. And he pats Gene’s chest, just because that’s where his hands are, and pushes himself backwards, adjusting his shirt. “Come on, I need a drink.”

“Good man.” Gene pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, wipes his fists on it, and strides away, leaving Sam to follow wordlessly, feeling just a little bit sick.

-0-0-

The first time Sam sees Gene naked.

Gene invites him over for dinner that night. It’s Sunday and they’re only bloody here because of a drugs drop that was supposed to be going down earlier, and Gwen’s not around to cater for them so Gene surprises him by offering a belated lunch roast at his place, all the trimmings, a joint of lamb, and “even some of them bloody veggies you love so much, if you really want”. It’s been years since he actually had a decent Sunday lunch, and he’s never been able to share it with his DCI before, so it takes him all of fifteen seconds to accept, having quickly checked the calendar to make sure it wasn’t April Fools.

He walks to Gene’s place after work with the air of a man relaxed and content, humming to himself and waving at little old ladies; this garners him a few odd looks, not least from Gene, who opens the door to Sam singing ‘Rocket Man’ and hustles him inside before the neighbours get a good look at them.

“Just when I didn’t think you could be any more of a fairy than you already are,” he mutters, awkwardly collecting Sam’s jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack; Sam has to smother a laugh. _Pavlovian._ And he got a good few brushes of Gene’s hands across various parts of his anatomy, not as unwelcome as they could have been. “You can, er, go an’ ‘ave a look around. ‘Ave some whisky, if you like. Food’s on, I’m goin’ to take a shower.”

And he vanishes upstairs, leaving Sam downstairs with a delicious-smelling kitchen, a battered sofa half-covered in old _Racing Posts_ , and the chance of a good snoop.

Within ten minutes, Sam’s read the most recent copy of the _Post_ , checked out Gene’s film collection (mostly Westerns, the odd Bond thriller), rummaged through his LPs as well, and even found a dog-eared copy of Michael Crichton’s _The Terminal Man_ under the sofa- something of a surprise- but apart from drinking Gene’s whisky collection dry, there’s not that much more to do, unless he goes upstairs.

He glances at his jacket, hung neatly beside Gene’s camel hair coat. Remembers Gene’s knuckles brushing his torso, the surprisingly endearing little stutter before he’d quite decided what to say to Sam. Men like Gene don’t pause. Not unless they mean it to be interpreted, or they’re nervous…

Has he missed an open invitation? He’s here for a sodding dinner date, with a man who’s not exactly an expert in showing his emotions. He peers up the stairway, munches on his lip, and tries to work out what the bloody hell he should do now.

And takes the stairs two at a time, stands at the top feeling like the loser at musical chairs, unsure where to go and shuffling from foot to foot, hands clasped behind his back.

The bathroom door opens, and Gene walks out, stark bollock naked.

“CHRIST ON A BIKE!”

“Gene!”

Sam’s never seen the man move so fast, bolting back into the bathroom and snatching up a wet towel from the floor so quickly Sam’s still reeling by the time Gene’s decent again, glaring daggers, jaw grinding silently.

“Er…”

“What the bloody ‘ell?”

Downplaying the situation seems to be the only way of keeping his balls, so Sam swallows nervously, wets his lips. “Sorry. I just thought… you said for me to take a look around-”

“Downstairs, you bloody loony!” Gene’s face is bright red, screwed up in rage or embarrassment, Sam can’t tell and wishes he could. “Where visitors stay! I told you I was ‘avin’ a soddin’ shower!”

“An’ sauntered out there without a stitch!”

_“Because you were downstairs!”_

“Look. Just calm down. I’m sorry.” Sam holds his hands out, takes a step back towards the stairs. “You’ve seen me naked, it’s not a big deal.”

“I was comin’ to your bloody rescue! But no, soon as I let you come ‘ere, you think you can nose around wherever you soddin’ well like, catch me out, an’ then tell me it’s “not a big deal”!”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Well, it’s not like I ‘ave much competition. Joni must’ve really drawn the short straw there… least I’m not a kinky bugger like you.”

Sam feels heat rising in his cheeks. “You _bastard_. That was against my will.”

“Oh, so it’s OK for you to invade _my_ privacy, but when it’s yours, you get all precious, eh, Tyler?”

“Forget this. I’m goin’.”

“Good,” Gene shouts after him as he turns and takes the stairs down, two at a time. “Go where yer appreciated, Sam bloody Tyler, because it sure as ‘ell ain’t ‘ere!”

He grabs his jacket and slams the door behind him, feeling humiliated, feeling cold, feeling like he’s misunderstood some giant part of the personal equation Gene was trying to teach him. By the time he gets home, he’s wiping tears away.

-0-0-

The second time Sam sees Gene naked.

They haven’t spoken for days. Even Phyllis isn’t brave enough to approach Gene in his office. The atmosphere is so dark, their usual insults cringe away; work is done in silence, desks vacated five minutes earlier than usual just to get the sodding hell away from the Guv, and to get some time at the Arms before he shows up and drinks the bar dry. Nelson himself is nervous about opening time.

Sam’s been working a series of minor crimes, muggings and burglaries, while the Guv tackles an armed robbery in a bank in the city centre, completely independently. He’s lonely wherever he goes, whether it be the Arms or the shops or home, he even finds himself visiting the same restaurant he took Gene to on Christmas Eve just to get away from his DCI and his wall of silence, ordering his lamb curry in morose solitude. He goes home to his files and his utter quiet, until he’s fed up with every bloody printed word and abandons them to spend the rest of the night in the company of a bottle of whisky. Which only makes him feel worse.

He’s heading into Lost and Found to retrieve a handbag the next day, head thumping and eyes ever so slightly blurred, when Gene and Ray round the corner in front of him frogmarching a scruffy young man between them, striding on ignoring his shouts as Gene kicks the door open and shoves him inside. “Right then, Tim. You goin’ to be a good lad or what?”

“You goin’ to put some deodorant on or what, you great sweaty pig?” Tim counters, unwisely.

Sam winces, creeps closer to the door, fully expects a punch and a yelp to follow; his eyebrows rise at the sight of Gene sitting down in the chair opposite Tim, snatching his packet of fags out and lighting one, blowing smoke into Tim’s face instead. Tim swallows, hard. “Fancy one, Timmy?”

Tim, wrong-footed, nods and shakes his head in quick succession. “Er, yeah, no, yeah. Yes please.”

Gene takes another cigarette out, holds it between his fingers. “We ‘ad a chat with Lisa. She confirmed to us you weren’t at ‘er place any time on Saturday. Oh, an’ yer mates said you weren’t at football neither.” He lights the cigarette, holds it out to Tim, who hesitates before taking it. “Do we really ‘ave to go askin’ yer mother if you were at ‘er place?”

Tim winces.

“Oldham Street bank. You been in there, Tim?”

“Once or twice, maybe.”

“Ever ‘eld a gun? Little ‘andgun, so big?”

“No.”

“What would you do with a few ‘undred pounds?”

“Buy meself a decent motor.”

“Cortina? Can recommend those, myself. Or maybe an Escort Mexico? Tasty motors, they are.”

“Oh aye,” Ray says from the side. He sounds just a tad confused, hopefully not enough for Tim to pick up on.

“You wouldn’t know what ‘appened at the Oldham Street bank last Saturday, would you then, Tim?”

“Nope.”

“Some bastard robbed the place. Got away with an awful lot of money, they did. Nobody you know suddenly got a lot of cash to spare?”

“Nope.”

“So ‘ow would they get into a bank then, Tim? I mean, you surely would know ‘ow to gain access to somewhere, without people noticin’. Smart young lad such as yerself.”

“Well, prob’ly through the back door,” Tim says, doubtfully. “I never did nothing at the Oldham Street bank, Mr Hunt, I wasn’t there.”

“Nah, we know you weren’t. You were in Newton Street, robbin’ the bank there, weren’t you? Through the back door, as you just said. An’ you didn’t use a handgun, you used something else, maybe it was a knife?”

“I don’t know what yer-”

“Didn’t get away with as much as you’d ‘ave liked, eh, Timmy? Them poor cashiers, though, you did them a deal of damage, the one bird’s too frightened to come into work anymore, ‘cos that was a soddin’ big knife you used, wasn’t it?”

“I-”

“What would we find if we ‘ad a look in your ‘ouse, Tim? Would we find the cash that was stolen? Fresh off the print, ‘cos you were too bloody stupid to ask for used notes, trademark of a beginner like you. Plead guilty an’ they’ll let you off after a couple of years, or you can fight an’ they’ll throw away the key like they should. What’s it to be, Tim?”

“Used-”

“Won’t your mam be so disappointed? Her little boy, robbin’ a bank at knifepoint. Poor thing won’t know where to turn. She’ll be so ashamed.”

“You don’t bloody tell ‘er!” Tim yelps, leaping out of his chair.

“Oh what, so you did rob that bank?”

Tim opens his mouth, shuts it, and sinks into his chair. “You bastard,” he mutters. “You utter bastard. You tricked me.”

“Ray, cuff ‘im. Tell Phyllis to get a cell ready.” Gene stands up, watches as Tim’s dragged out, and sighs gustily as soon as they’ve clattered off together, down the hallway.

Sam’s just standing there. That was good. That was exactly executed, Gene speaking over him, manipulating him and eventually there was just nowhere for him to turn and that, that was not Gene Hunt. Not the Gene Sam knows.

He chances stepping inside, and Gene’s head snaps up, eyes widening for the split second before he turns his back on his DI and stomps out of the door, down towards CID, leaving Sam to chase him through the doors and into his office and gets the door swung back into his face, which is very much Gene Hunt. And very much not appreciated.

“Oi!” Rubbing his bloody nose, he storms into Gene’s office, slams his hand down on the desk. “What was that for?”

Gene yanks a clean handkerchief from his pocket and throws it at Sam, turns away towards his filing cabinet to pour a glass of scotch. “Bugger off.”

“You could’ve broken my nose!”

“Well, better luck next time, eh.”

“Just because you’re all embarrassed about me seein’ you without yer clothes! Which, incidentally, is nowhere near as bad as someone makin’ stupid jokes about me being assaulted!”

Gene flings the tumbler at the wall, swerves back to Sam with a roar of pure frustration. “You prick! Not everyone is as bloody perfect as you are! We can’t all be cups of tea an’ pats on the back after someone’s crept upstairs an’ caught ‘em comin’ out of the shower!”

“You think I think I’m perfect?”

“Well, you do such a good soddin’ job, with yer fancy Hyde methods an’ yer stick-up-the-arse shiny morals like some bloody innocent flatfloot. I do an interrogation your way an’ it ends up with a conviction. I make you bloody dinner, make an effort to accommodate you for once, tryin’ to make you fit in an’ all that, an’ you throw it back in my face!”

He needs to change the subject. No bloody way are they just going back to being enemies, not when Sam’s so sick of it, not when he’s finally got Gene in a room and talking to him. “Gene, that- what you just did in that interrogation, that was- that was so good.”

Gene sniffs. “Shut up. Bugger off.”

“No. No, I won’t. I want to praise you for it.”

“Praise me! What am I, a poodle? Shove it, Tyler.” Gene sidesteps him, only for Sam to grab hold of his arm, spin him round and pin him against his own filing cabinet, one hand on his chest.

“I’m sorry about catchin’ you out. I’m sorry if you were embarrassed. You made some bloody ‘orrible comments an’ that’s why I left. An’ if you were only doin’ that because you don’t eat alone, or because you felt I needed to fit in-”

“You really are paranoid, aren’t you. I did it because I wanted you to come for dinner.”

“… Well then.” He can’t really think of anything else to say. But Gene turns away, won’t look at Sam any more, and yet Sam doesn’t let him go, breathes in the smell of spilled whisky and watches Gene staring at the broken glass on the floor. “Come to my flat. Tonight. I’ll get you some ingredients an’ you can make me a roast dinner. We can pretend it’s Sunday.”

Gene sniffs. “Won’t be as good as what you cook, Delilah.”

“Smelled bloody gorgeous. But if you don’t fancy it, that’s fine too… just please, stop actin’ like I’m not ‘ere, Guv. It’s bloody exasperatin’.”

“You sure you trust me not to set yer crappy little flat on fire?”

“Honestly, Guv, I don’t think I’d care. I’d be throwin’ petrol over it.” Sam chuckles, and that, that little twitch of Gene’s lip there, that might have been a smile. “Come on! I can think of far worse ways of spendin’ my evening than ‘avin’ you cook for me.”

“Oh, I see. I’m yer kitchen scully.”

“No, yer my Guv.” He grins at him, watches as Gene lifts his head and regards him, and for a split second it feels like he’s seeing Gene naked again, even more naked than last time, as Gene scrutinises him and steps backwards and sniffs, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling.

“Fine. Bring scotch.”

“I drank it all.”

“Then buy more. Yer a big boy.”

“I will.”

“See, we’ll make a DI of you yet.” And Gene brushes past, brushes his whole body against Sam’s, and walks out into CID with his head held high, and Sam breaks out into a little laugh, too elated to care about the stares from his team as he heads out through the doors and down to the front desk to ask for a pan and brush.


End file.
